ull at my bougainvillea vine as if it were
in his way. Some of the splendid petals fluttered about Madame Mauer's
head.

We reached the Mauers' front porch by a circuitous route--through the
back garden and the house itself--and paused to admire the view. Yes, we
looked for Ching Po as if we were tourists and he were Niagara.

"He hasn't moved yet." This was Madame Mauer's triumphant whimper.
Inarticulate noises somewhere near indicated that French Eva was still
in sanctuary.

Follet grunted. Then he unleashed his supple body and was half way to
the gate in a single arrow flight. I followed, carrying the pistol still
in my hand. My involuntary haste must have made me seem to brandish it.
I heard a perfectly civilized scream from Madame Mauer, receding into the
background--which shows that I was, myself, acquiring full speed ahead.
By the time Follet reached the gate, Ching Po moved. I saw Follet
gaining on him, and then saw no more of them; for my feet acting on some
inspiration of their own which never had time to reach my brain, took a
short cut to the water front. I raced past French Eva's empty house,
pounding my way through the gentle heat of May, to Stires's
establishment. I hoped to cut them off. But Ching Po must have had a
like inspiration, for when I was almost within sight of my goal--fifty
rods ahead--the Chinaman emerged from a side lane between me and it. He
was running like the wind. Follet was nowhere to be seen. Ching Po and I
were the only mites on earth's surface. The whole population,
apparently, had piously gone up the mountain in order to let us have our
little drama out alone. I do not know how it struck Ching Po; but I felt
very small on that swept and garnished scene.

I was winded; and with the hope of reaching Stires well dashed, my legs
began to crumple. I sank down for a few seconds on the low wall of some
one's compound. But I kept a keen eye out for Follet. I thought Stires
could look out for himself, so long as it was just Ching Po. It was the
triangular mix-up I was afraid of; even though I providentially had
Follet's pistol. And, for that matter, where was Follet? Had he given up
the chase? Gone home for that drink, probably.

But in that I had done him injustice; for in a few moments he debouched
from yet a third approach. Ching Po had evidently doubled, somehow, and
baffled him.

I rose to meet him, and he slowed down to take me on. By this time the
peaceful water front had abs